Between the Shadows
by Waen
Summary: When Combeferre buys a flute from a man in the street, he finds the name "Prouvaire" carved on the side. And suddenly, he begins to remember Prouvaire. But none of the other Amis do... 'FerreJehan slash.
1. Chapter One

"Between The Shadows"  
  
It was rather late, about eleven.  
  
Combeferre had stayed behind at the café to discuss a speech, which Enjolras had been unsure about. Enjolras always liked that, Combeferre could tell.  
  
The man liked discussing things, even if his friend enjoyed things like poetry, which was useless.  
  
The day had been good and normal, classes, Enjolras, café…  
  
His days were always like that.   
  
There were the Amis. Each unique.  
  
Courfeyrac who was useless and an awful bother to Enjolras, Bossuet who was bald and had no luck, Joly who was always with him and carried a cane, which made him look slightly foppish, Bahorel who was enthusiastic and faithful, Feuilly who made fans and loved the idea of freedom, especially for his homeland…  
  
And there was Grantaire too.  
  
A drunk cynic, Combeferre often thought to himself. How useless. He had been particularly annoying today and had clearly made Enjolras nervous.  
  
Now Combeferre walked home, thinking of all the Amis.   
  
They were a strange group, he supposed. But it wasn't as though anything was missing from them, for they each had the characters they needed.   
  
Now he glanced about him and was ashamed that he had a wealthy family. There were a few beggars clawing at his cloths. All his life he'd been a little frightened by these people. He had always lived in warm houses and he never knew how to treat them.  
  
There had been another beggar, not crouching and groveling like the others, but standing and looking prouder. In one hand he held a beautiful flute.  
  
Combeferre paused from trying to avoid the urchins.  
  
The man looked at him, too. Then smiled.  
  
That really frightened Combeferre.  
  
When these people wailed it hurt his soul. But when they smiled…  
  
He took a quick step back but the man eagerly came foreword.  
  
He held the flute back a little, but still so Combeferre could see it clearly, as though this would make Combeferre want the flute.  
  
Combeferre looked at him distrustfully. The man straightened a little and cleared his throat.  
  
"Would you play the flute?"  
  
Combeferre had the feeling that the beggar was trying to be bourgeois.  
  
"No."  
  
He shifted uneasily.  
  
The man looked faintly angry.  
  
"Well," he said. "I was going to sell it at a pawn shop. But I'll let you have it for less."  
  
"It's only a wooden flute. Why would I want it?"  
  
"It's a good thing to play. You could learn."  
  
Combeferre had no desire whatsoever for the flute. He did not want it. He did not want the smell of the man; he did not want to be here.  
  
"Oh, all right."  
  
He pushed coins into the man's hands then hurried off carrying the flute. He didn't wait to hear weather the man was pleased or angry or anything. He escaped to the building where he stayed in a rather nice room.  
  
At first he had planned to study.  
  
However he felt rather intrigued by the flute now he was where he was comfortable and instead sat on the bed and examined it.  
  
It was a smooth flute.  
  
Small holes.  
  
Combeferre had never played a flute but had once played a recorder. He knew they were different, one side-blown and the other forward. He supposed eventually he might try to learn to play it.  
  
Eventually.  
  
He turned it over and over then found carved in it a signature.  
  
Actually two signatures.  
  
The first he supposed was the maker's.  
  
The second was another man's. Perhaps the man who played it.  
  
"Prouvaire".  
  
He thought he knew the name.  
  
Somewhere in the back of his memory.  
  
He quickly looked away.  
  
Prouvaire…  
  
He really *did* know that name.  
  
Somewhere.  
  
He sat there and tried to play the flute.  
  
But he couldn't and he only succeeded in making himself very dizzy and lightheaded.  
  
He thought of poets.  
  
A poet…  
  
With brown hair.  
  
Who had once kissed him.  
  
And…  
  
He felt confused. Somehow he also remembered a life. That must have been his. And yet he didn't recognize the memories. At least not for a while.  
  
A poet with brown hair whom he had loved.  
  
And they had lived right here, too.  
  
In this room.  
  
Jehan, he remembered.  
  
Jehan.  
  
Where was he now, he wondered. What had happened to him?  
  
He didn't even know if it was real.  
  
If it wasn't, that was certainly reasonable.  
  
After all, men don't wear women's dresses. Jehan had liked that, Combeferre thought.   
  
He always remembered him sitting on the bed, writing poetry, dressed in some dress with bright colours and lots of lace.  
  
Only lovers like Jehan and Combeferre could have afforded to live like that.  
  
Poetry and philosophy. They were both rather useless.  
  
He stroked the flute and wondered helplessly where the man was now.  
  
He remembered nights.  
  
And mornings.  
  
And days.  
  
He wondered where it had all gone, that love. Where Jehan had gone. He knew, somehow that Jehan wouldn't leave him.  
  
Then he was thinking of the man who had sold the flute.  
  
How did he have Jehan's flute?  
  
Jehan…  
  
He felt more and more fondness as he thought back.  
  
And bewilderment.  
  
He thought of the last day he remembered, the day when Jehan had told Combeferre the thing he wanted most in the world was a necklace with green stones. Combeferre had said that purple would look nicer. Jehan had said that he didn't have anything green and that he needed at least something. Combeferre knew but didn't say why Jehan had nothing green. Combeferre had never liked green anyway.  
  
Or at least not the green he knew Jehan referred to.  
  
And he knew also that it wouldn't look nice on Jehan.  
  
Purple, like he'd said, would've, though.  
  
Then Jehan had said he wanted to go out.   
  
Combeferre offered to accompany him, but Jehan wanted to go alone. Combeferre wouldn't argue.   
  
It had been two years since Jehan had come to live with him.  
  
Combeferre had grown up in the city, a rather well known family.   
  
When he was sixteen he began living here.  
  
Jehan came five years after that.   
  
They had met in the gardens.  
  
They became part of the Amis together.  
  
Everyone loved Jehan's poetry except for Enjolras.  
  
Though not all of them respected it, Courfeyrac said it was useless. But he liked it anyway.  
  
Bossuet had been bitter because he couldn't write poetry. He used to try then had given up.  
  
But they all loved it.  
  
And Jehan wrote poetry for Combeferre. He was more careful and wasted more time with these poems than the others.  
  
He'd write very late sometimes then realize and apologize unhappily. And Combeferre would laugh and take the silly poet into his arms and tell him that he didn't mind at all, even when he was tired.  
  
Jehan had been everything.  
  
And one doesn't even forget someone who was only a friend. A friend from years ago.  
  
And one never forgets someone one loved.  
  
Not when he loved him *that* much.  
  
And why did the flute bring it back?  
  
He gazed at the flute. He felt helpless. He felt bewildered.  
  
He wanted Jehan back.  
  
And the Amis. Did they remember Jehan?  
  
How could they not after reading so much of his poetry? But they hadn't asked the day Jehan disappeared.  
  
Combeferre didn't sleep that night. Instead he searched everywhere for the poetry. There had to be some. Jehan had always written so much. It had to be somewhere.  
  
So he kept searching.   
  
And searching.  
  
But he gave up in the morning and went to the café in search of someone who might remember Jehan. Someone had to.  
  
Besides, there was a meeting there.  
  
Grantaire and Courfeyrac destroyed most meetings. The real war was not so much between Enjolras and poverty as it was Enjolras and disruption. But the meeting went smoothly and nicely and absolutely nothing got done, except Enjolras and Bahorel did end the discussion on what to build the barricade from.  
  
Combeferre went to Bossuet first.  
  
Jehan had always written poetry for Bossuet.  
  
He'd taken a liking to the man with no luck who couldn't write poetry.  
  
Bossuet always asked for poems about women with long flowing hair. Dark red hair like Feuilly and gold hair like Enjolras and dark, rich brown hair like Bahorel. He wanted the women combing their hair and braiding it. He wanted other women with long hair stroking another's hair. Sometimes Jehan would worry that he couldn't write about long silky hair another time and still make it different from the one before, but he always managed.  
  
So Combeferre went to Bossuet first.  
  
The man was standing alone, another reason for Combeferre to ask him.  
  
Combeferre approached nervously.  
  
"Er… Bossuet"  
  
Bossuet turned to look at him.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Do you have Jehan's poetry?"  
  
Bossuet shrugged.  
  
"I don't know who 'Jehan' is."  
  
"He wrote poetry for you."  
  
"I don't remember a Jehan."  
  
"He wrote… don't you remember? He came to the café. He wrote poetry for everyone."  
  
Bossuet looked amused.  
  
"It must be my memory. I don't remember. Jehan's a strange name. Is it like Jean?"  
  
Combeferre felt confused.  
  
Why didn't Bossuet remember? It was true.  
  
He shrugged unhappily.  
  
"Yes, It's exactly like Jean."  
  
He quickly turned away.  
  
Joly might remember.  
  
But he doubted it.  
  
He knew Jehan wrote poetry for all of them.  
  
He remembered.  
  
He remembered what type of poems Jehan wrote for each.  
  
Joly liked poetry about the ocean. He used to live by it before he came to Paris. Jehan had never seen the ocean except in paintings, but it wasn't hard to write about. Jehan's poetry was romantic and that made it easy.  
  
Courfeyrac said he liked ballads. Jehan didn't write for him until he understood exactly how to write a ballad. Then for the next few months that's all he wrote. He enjoyed the rolling pattern, the story you could tell, everything about ballads. So Jehan had written many ballads.  
  
Courfeyrac always enjoyed them, reading out loud, and loud, so the whole café could hear. Jehan would cringe and plead with Courfeyrac not to read them to everyone, but the man didn't care.  
  
Bahorel liked poetry about deaths. He liked poetry describing a dead person then describing her entire life then her death. Jehan hadn't liked the idea at first. At first he didn't want to write about a dead person. Then he found out what he could do with the idea and he loved it. He often wrote that way.  
  
Feuilly liked poems that made you pause and shiver. Jehan wrote these the least. They were the hardest.   
  
It was hard to write so that people felt awful or overjoyed or wondering. So that something was said then something else was and the second thing made you shiver.  
  
Enjolras didn't like poetry.  
  
Jehan sometimes wrote poetry for him anyway. He wrote poetry about how Enjolras looked when he stood on tables and said his speeches. Those poems were just as beautiful as the rest.  
  
But Combeferre asked everyone if they remembered Jehan. And no one did.  
  
Combeferre might have known it was hopeless after Bossuet, but he wished so much he convinced himself that possibly one might remember Jehan.  
  
Which might be why when he remembered that Jehan once wrote poetry for Grantaire, he decided to ask him.  
  
It had been early.  
  
When Jehan was first writing.  
  
He'd written a poem for Grantaire.  
  
The poem was about burning leaves.  
  
It was a beautiful poem.  
  
Jehan had showed it to Combeferre first and Combeferre hadn't the heart to tell him that Grantaire wouldn't care.  
  
When Jehan gave it to Grantaire, Grantaire told him he couldn't read. That had hurt Jehan. But Jehan offered to read it to him. When he did Grantaire had laughed at it and told him it was useless. He told him that all poetry was useless.  
  
Just lies to hide the fact that life isn't like poems.  
  
So Jehan didn't write for him after that.  
  
Combeferre told him how much he liked the poem so Jehan gave it to him instead. So Grantaire ought to remember Jehan. Or at least he might remember Jehan. It didn't matter, it was a possibility.  
  
He went to Grantaire.  
  
He was nervous and worried; he had never liked the man. It was always awful approaching drunk people. Ones that can't read. He never knew how to treat them. He wanted to be polite but Grantaire would think him condescending.  
  
He sat in the chair across from Grantaire.  
  
The man looked darkly at him.  
  
Combeferre shifted uneasily.  
  
"Do you remember Jehan Prouvaire?"  
  
"No."  
  
"He wrote a poem for you."  
  
"No, he didn't."  
  
"You remember him?"  
  
"No."  
  
But somehow, in the way Grantaire said it, Combeferre was sure he did.  
  
"Yes, you do."  
  
Grantaire eyed him.  
  
"Why do you care?"  
  
"He's gone."  
  
"I know. Why do you care? You didn't before."  
  
Combeferre quivered.  
  
"You know, don't you?"  
  
"Mmhm. Of course. I'm evil, drunk, cynic Grantaire."  
  
"You did it!"  
  
"Mmhm."  
  
"Where is he?? I want him back!"  
  
Feuilly looked up from where he was talking with Bahorel, and then returned to conversation almost bemused.  
  
Grantaire smiled.  
  
"Quiet, Philosopher, wouldn't want you turning into Apollo, shouting at me that was."  
  
Combeferre was quieter.  
  
"You took him away!"  
  
"What does it matter? You didn't care for the last year."  
  
"That's your fault too."  
  
Grantaire smirked.  
  
"Yes, yes, it is…"  
  
"How do I get him back??"  
  
Grantaire was suddenly serious.  
  
"You don't."  
  
"Why not??"  
  
"He distracted you."  
  
Combeferre paused.  
  
"From what?"  
  
"Apollo."  
  
Luckily, it was late and most of the Amis were leaving. Enjolras had already left.   
  
Combeferre looked confused.  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
Grantaire grinned.  
  
"You don't, do you?"  
  
Then he looked sad.  
  
"Don't you ever look at him? Don't you ever study his face and hair or the way he stands? Why can't you love him and please him? That's what he wants. Why can't you see that? Why do you have to be so blind?"  
  
"I don't-" Combeferre muttered.  
  
"He loves you. He's always loved you. Why can't you look around? He'd try to ask you about yourself and your life because he loved you and wanted to know you, and all you ever did was talk on and on about your lover. 'Jehan wrote this' and 'Jehan said that'. You never treated him as you should have. He needs you, but you didn't pay attention. You just thought about *Jehan* all the time. It was always Jehan. Don't you see his eyes? Don't you see the way he moves? Can't you see how hurt he is? Oh, yes, he does a good job of hiding it, but you're his best friend. You should see those sorts of things."  
  
He looked tired.  
  
"How can you say that I shouldn't have taken Jehan away? I want Enjolras to be pleased. And he is. More than before, at least."  
  
Combeferre felt furious and startled and frightened and amazed.   
  
He wouldn't have dreamed Enjolras loved him.  
  
Or anyone, really.  
  
He'd thought that Enjolras didn't need anyone.  
  
That's how it seemed to be.  
  
But even if it was that way, it didn't give Grantaire any right to just eradicate someone.  
  
To just wipe away a mind and a soul.  
  
It was killing someone.   
  
It might have been, too.  
  
It was repulsive and awful and unjust.  
  
The boy had parents, the boy had a lover.  
  
The boy might be a great poet.  
  
But the boy was gone.  
  
In a way it wasn't like killing because everyone had forgotten, so no one hurt.  
  
But to the rest of the world, to the world that hadn't met him yet and could never, that was like death.  
  
If they heard about him dead and read his poetry, they might love it.  
  
But they couldn't ever love him.  
  
He was dead.  
  
And it was Grantaire's fault.  
  
Really, though, Combeferre had the feeling that it was his own fault.  
  
If he had seen that Enjolras loved him. And treated him right.  
  
Then Jehan would be here.  
  
Smiling, and laughing and writing poetry.  
  
Combeferre remembered the poem Jehan had written about the river Seine.   
  
  
  
He had written beautifully.  
  
About the darkness.  
  
And the oldness and tiredness of the river.  
  
He'd written so you were part of the river.  
  
And in a way you were anyway.   
  
You go through the beautiful things in life, the countryside, but you pick up the bad things in life as well as the good things. And you see so much. And in the end you just flow out to the sea.  
  
Jehan wasn't sure if the Seine flowed to the sea, but he knew other rivers did, and it sounded right.  
  
He'd smiled a little and said "Poetic License".  
  
Then Combeferre asked him how he was so wise.  
  
Jehan said he wasn't and that he just guessed and kept what sounded right.  
  
Combeferre said it was like the meadows that he was flowing through.  
  
Jehan reminded Combeferre that he still had the city to flow through.  
  
But neither minded.  
  
The city was a far way off.  
  
But not so far now.  
  
"'How can I say you shouldn't have taken Jehan away'?? How can you actually ask that? He was a person! How can you take that away? You *killed* a person, then his memories! You erased him! No man has the right to do that!"  
  
Grantaire stood.  
  
"What? To kill people? If you don't kill people you'll never be free. There are always people to be killed. Always kings to kill. Always criminals to execute. Always wars to be fought at the price of souls and minds. My mind? Worthless. But your mind. Someday you'll be dead. What if the world misses you? They can't get you back. What if the revolution succeeds and you're still alive? What if you need an army to fight England? What if you're part of that army? What if you're killed in battle? What if he were still here to be killed in battle? No one would care. It's not your mind that people care about. It's how long you last. Jehan wouldn't have lasted long anyway."  
  
"But you've no right to kill people!"  
  
"If you did go to battle, wouldn't you kill people?"  
  
Combeferre looked angrily at Grantaire.  
  
"I respect that other men have lives. I wouldn't kill them."  
  
"You would."  
  
"Only if they were my enemies. Enemies of the revolution."  
  
"Jehan was my enemy."  
  
"Tell me what you did with him! Why did you kill him??"  
  
"I did not kill him."  
  
Grantaire wasn't looking at Combeferre. He was looking at the bottle on the table.  
  
"What then?"  
  
"*I* shant tell you"  
  
"Grantaire."  
  
"No. No more. I told you as much as I will. Go to hell."  
  
Combeferre felt angry and hurt.  
  
"But you already told me so much!"  
  
"Yes. I told you enough to get you interested so I could then stop and make you miserable. You don't think I like you, do you?"  
  
Combeferre stepped back.  
  
"You…"  
  
"I. I am awful. And now I'm going to drink, so you may leave."  
  
Combeferre didn't know why.  
  
Normally he might have stayed and asked more, because, really, he wanted Jehan back and he needed Jehan back.  
  
But he left the back room of the café feeling sad and alone.  
  
And he almost walked into Bahorel. 


	2. Chapter Two

Bahorel looked amused.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
"Yes, fine…"  
  
"It's late."  
  
"Mmhmm."  
  
Combeferre wanted to leave but he could tell Bahorel wanted him to stay.  
  
He slid into a chair.  
  
"So how was your day? Good and comic?  
  
Bahorel looked rueful.  
  
"Not in the least. Feuilly and I had a philosophic talk about the prices of paintings."  
  
"Sounds very philosophic. Whose paintings?"  
  
"His."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"So who were you talking to?"  
  
"Grantaire."  
  
"Really? Why ever?"   
  
Combeferre eyed him.  
  
"No real reason. In a few days I will hear rumors flying about that I talked with Grantaire, and all the rumors say it wasn't you who told so?"  
  
"No. I keep secrets well."  
  
Combeferre looked amused  
  
"Really?"  
  
Bahorel studied Combeferre's face.  
  
"You insult me. You'll never make a proper philosopher until you can understand human nature. And you can't, either, not right, at least. I heard you talking to Enjolras the other day. You said you thought me too enthusiastic and maybe rash. You need to do better than that. Who do you think I am? Who do you think Bossuet is? You judge all of us by what you see. Whatever you see first, that's how you think of us. Except maybe Enjolras. You care for him some. And we judged you. We said that you've always been much too kind and helpful and we've said you needed to be on your own more instead of always helping someone, but you're not like that really. No matter what I say I won't be telling you who you are. I couldn't tell myself who I am either, because I don't know. People don't stay one way. Sometimes they do. But not in such a way that you could say 'Bahorel will always love disrupting the peace and will always love a good laugh and will always love laughing and sharing a bottle of wine with his friends'. *You* could've said that. Isn't that what you think of me? Fun loving. Like Courfeyrac, only violent?   
  
"But even if I am that way now, will I be that way forever? If I live five years more and survive seeing young men like myself die will I still be eager to see more die? Maybe philosophy about different ways to live your life. Different standards, practices. Methods. Ideals. And maybe that's why you look at us that way. And I know everyone looks at the world with personal bias. I do. Even when I'm trying to make an argument I keep showing it. But you can't judge people when you first see them. Why do you have to judge us? I know I pretend to speak for the Amis, but I'm really speaking for myself. I have ideals too, Combeferre, even if they're different. Even if you and Enjolras think Courfeyrac and Grantaire and I have such loose Standards, you don't know it. Perhaps Bahorel would like to be serious. Perhaps Bahorel will read tragedies. Perhaps he'll study art. But you don't accept that. You read about a Comedy on a sign posted somewhere so you go to Bahorel and tell there's something that looks his sort. Does he ever say anything deep? Would you come to him with a question?"  
  
Combeferre sighed.  
  
"You don't understand-"  
  
"What makes you think that?"  
  
"Because you don't! We come to you when there's something funny happening because you never tell people you like meaningful things!"  
  
"But if I ever tell anyone that I like that sort, do you think they would ever stop telling me about myself?"  
  
Combeferre shivered. "Hypocrite."  
  
"Well, it's true."  
  
"Perhaps it is. You're still a hypocrite. But why would we bring questions to you when you'd as soon laugh as answer?"  
  
Bahorel sighed.  
  
"How did this conversation get turned around?"  
  
"You did it. You were originally talking of my faults then you began talking about your own troubles."  
  
Combeferre knew these were things he oughtn't say. Things that Bahorel realized by himself and when they were said out loud embarrassed him.  
  
But over the last few days, things had changed. Before he had never wanted conflict. Before he wanted to make things work smoothly.   
  
Now he supposed it was too complicated to just be pleasant all the time.  
  
Bahorel looked weary.  
  
"We all talk of our own troubles. And I'm sorry to offend you. What are your troubles? Would you like to talk of your own? I'll listen."  
  
Combeferre felt as tired as Bahorel looked.  
  
"Jehan…" He murmured.  
  
He saw Bahorel tense.  
  
He immediately felt awake.  
  
"Y-you know him?"  
  
Bahorel looked amused.  
  
"Yes. The poet. Where's he gotten to, anyway? I have some of his poetry at home."  
  
"You *what*? Can I see?"  
  
"You mean may you follow me home? Why do you care? He wrote loads for you anyway."  
  
Combeferre felt rather awful.  
  
"He's gone."  
  
Bahorel's eyes widened.  
  
"I'm so sorry. If I'd known-"  
  
"He's not dead."  
  
Bahorel looked blank.  
  
Combeferre sighed.  
  
"Grantaire… got rid of him."  
  
"He what?"  
  
"He…"  
  
Combeferre gestured helplessly.  
  
"He got rid of him. He magiced him away."  
  
Bahorel quickly stood looking a little worried.   
  
"Shush, 'Ferre, it's all right."  
  
Combeferre bristled.  
  
"Oh, don't act all kindly, it's true. You just think that you can lecture me about myself then suddenly become all wise. I'm not mad. Grantaire told me. He told me just a moment ago. He was-"  
  
"Drunk?"  
  
"*You* ask him then if you want to know. Maybe he *was* drunk. But can *you* tell me why none of the Amis know who Jehan is? Can you explain why no one has any of his poetry?"  
  
"I still have his poetry"  
  
"God dammit, Bahorel, all of the rest is gone! For the last year no one has said anything about him! He's just gone!"  
  
"Is he dead?"  
  
"*No*! I told you! He's just gone!"  
  
Bahorel sighed.  
  
"It's late," he said "and your wasting my time."  
  
Combeferre looked gloomily at him, then turned to the door.  
  
"I'll be going now, shall I?"  
  
"No, by all means you may stay. But I'm leaving. Bonne nuit."  
  
And he was gone.  
  
Combeferre watched the door.  
  
He longed for Jehan to be there.  
  
To be taken into Jehan's arms.   
  
To have him tell him about the poem he wrote.  
  
Combeferre left for his apartment. 


	3. Chapter Three

The next day he completely forgot church, but café was open as it always was despite that it was Sunday. It was always open.  
  
Bahorel was there when Combeferre came in.   
  
He acted as though he and Combeferre had never talked, but finally did come over.  
  
"Would you like to see that poetry?"  
  
Combeferre shivered.  
  
"Surely."  
  
Together, they went to the room Bahorel rented.  
  
If it could be called a room.  
  
It was small.  
  
And very plain.  
  
The floor and small desk and bed were cluttered with books and papers.  
  
It had two small windows in one wall, which gave a lovely view of the stone wall of the building beside them. It was a plain wall. It was a boring wall. And Combeferre understood why Bahorel had so many books.  
  
He sat lightly on the bed, avoiding papers.  
  
"You sleep on this?"  
  
"I move the papers."  
  
Bahorel was looking through a stack of papers on the desk.  
  
"I left those poems somewhere. Help me look."  
  
Combeferre carefully stood and began searching through papers on the floor, stacking them as he went through them into neat piles.  
  
Then he did the ones on the bed.  
  
Then the ones everywhere else.  
  
Bahorel was looking worried.  
  
"But I read some only the other day."  
  
He stood from where he was examining the papers in one stack.  
  
"Here's poetry. Only he didn't write it. Someone else did. It rambles a bit. Did he have a pen name?"  
  
Combeferre felt incredulous and unhappy and scared.  
  
"No. And I'll never get him back."  
  
Bahorel looked sympathetic.  
  
"Then you should forget him."  
  
Combeferre looked quickly up.  
  
"What? I can't."  
  
"Yes you can. And it would be better."  
  
Bahorel stepped forward and touched Combeferre's hair.  
  
Combeferre looked worried.  
  
"I love him. I can't forget him. Not again. He needs to be remembered."  
  
"You and I are the only ones who remember him. We could forget him together. It would be a beautiful finale"  
  
He softly kissed Combeferre.  
  
Combeferre pushed away from him.  
  
"Bahorel!"  
  
"Combeferre!"  
  
Bahorel kissed him again.  
  
Combeferre found the doorknob behind himself and quickly escaped.  
  
  
  
Bahorel stood staring at the door, feeling rather hurt, somehow.  
  
Combeferre fled to the streets.   
  
He wandered almost purposefully until he found himself over the river Seine.  
  
He stood there, lonely.  
  
All he wanted was Jehan.   
  
He didn't want Bahorel to treat him like that.  
  
All he wanted was what he had.  
  
The flute brought back memories.  
  
But it didn't bring back Jehan.  
  
Why the hell not?  
  
What right did Grantaire have to take a man's existence?   
  
A hand on his shoulder interrupted his thoughts.  
  
He turned quickly.  
  
"Oh. Bonjour, Feuilly."  
  
"Bonjour. The river is lovely, isn't it?"  
  
"I've always liked rivers."  
  
They gazed down at it together.  
  
"They're good to paint."  
  
"You paint rivers?"  
  
Feuilly smiled.  
  
"Oh yes. Rivers and mountains and valleys and snow and people. Horses too. I've always painted horses."  
  
Now Combeferre smiled too.  
  
"And how do you come by models for horses?"  
  
Feuilly yawned.  
  
"Plenty go through the city."  
  
"That true. And people?"  
  
"I don't actually use models for people most of the time."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"I paint from memory. Things that pop into my head. I think of something and I paint it."  
  
"That sounds nice."  
  
"Yes, it is…"  
  
They were both silent a moment the Feuilly spoke again.  
  
"Artists, most, like to paint with models. They like passionate paintings. With rich colours. Lots of contrast."  
  
Feuilly looked wistful and sad as he spoke.  
  
"It's called Romanticism."   
  
Combeferre glanced at him.  
  
"Well, what do you paint?"  
  
Feuilly glanced back at him.  
  
"Beggars. Prostitutes. The streets. Dark paintings. When I'm not doing landscapes."  
  
"Don't sell very well, do they?"  
  
"No," he sighed, "No, they don't. Not well at all."   
  
"I haven't seen any of your paintings."  
  
"No, I guess not. Would you like to? All the others think me quite the curiosity."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Don't you hear them?"  
  
Feuilly sounded amused and bitter.  
  
"Anytime they want anything, 'Ask Feuilly, he will know.'"  
  
"Isn't that good?"  
  
Feuilly continued though.  
  
" 'I showed Mother that painting of the roof tops. She likes it quite a lot. Always acts so amused when she hears about you. You wouldn't believe the jokes we make.'"  
  
"…Why?"  
  
"I'm a curiosity, I suppose. Like the other day. Courfeyrac's cousin is going to Italy. Courfeyrac doesn't remember who painted the Annunciation. He also doesn't remember how many there are. So I'm the one they ask. And of course *I* know."  
  
"Is there something wrong with that?"  
  
"*You* try being a parrot."  
  
"Oh…"  
  
"I'm not valued as myself. I'm known by most as Courfeyrac or Joly or Bossuet or Bahorel's friend. Or I'm the noble revolutionary. A little poor, but still faithful. A bohemian. An artist."  
  
Feuilly looked quickly at Combeferre.  
  
"Which I am, of course. An artist. But when you say 'I love to paint' your immediately branded as knowing every painter and all of his works."  
  
"But you do know a lot."  
  
"Yes, I know a lot."  
  
They were both silent for a while.  
  
Then Feuilly sighed.  
  
"Come to my place and see my artwork and gawk at it and say what a perfectly morbid painter I am?"  
  
"Morbid is very good. I'm in a morbid mood."  
  
"Ah. Nice rhyme."  
  
They walked dismally back into the city, choosing the depressing streets to walk.  
  
"Morbid is a state of being."  
  
Feuilly disagreed.   
  
"State of mind. That's why it comes out in your talk and work."  
  
"But if it weren't a state of being how could it take the solid form of a painting or poem?"  
  
"It does that because man is greedy and wants things so that he can see them"  
  
Combeferre couldn't help but feel amused.  
  
"You're saying that man should be content in just radiating Emotions from themselves to others?"  
  
Feuilly looked disgruntled.  
  
"Well, that's true. But it would work better in any case. Seeing as some people aren't affected by the Emotions in paintings but might be if it was just… er… *given* to them."  
  
"But those people would be the people whose skin is so strong that you can't share your Emotions."  
  
Feuilly nodded in agreement.  
  
"But really, I should be arguing your side of the argument because as an artist I prefer to convey Emotion through sight."  
  
"Musicians by sound."  
  
"Chefs through taste."  
  
"Emotion through taste?"  
  
"Mm. If the chef liked someone he'd give it fuller flavour."  
  
"And if he didn't?"  
  
"Turnips. Cilantro."  
  
"And if he were angry, pepper."  
  
"Right. Of course, all we ate in Poland was cabbage."  
  
"Oh, how repulsive!"  
  
They both were highly amused and took a moment to get over laughing at the rather less than funny joke.  
  
But it was funny because they were just over being depressed.  
  
"What about smell?"  
  
Feuilly smirked.  
  
"Smell and taste are the same. Ever tried eating something and pinching your nose (I have often done this whilst eating the sacred cabbage)?"  
  
"Yes, it doesn't have taste (sacred cabbage?)."  
  
"(Mm)"  
  
They walked on in silence a while then Feuilly glanced at Combeferre.  
  
"I think that touch conveys Emotion the best. Fear, compassion, disgust, hate, desire, envy…"  
  
At that moment beggars, all crying out for money, clawing, sobbing, wretched, attacked them.  
  
They both quickly dug in their pockets for coins (though Feuilly had to dig a little deeper), which they quickly gave, both a little disturbed.  
  
When the beggars were gone they each looked at the other.  
  
Feuilly spoke what they both thought.   
  
"Cheerful roads next time."  
  
Combeferre nodded and half smiled.  
  
Feuilly continued.  
  
"It's not that you don't want to give to them, but the way they claw at you. The way you know they're half mad from cold and hunger and could hurt you. I hope Enjolras's crazy revolution works and there's no more of this."  
  
"You know it won't work."  
  
"Your right."  
  
He sighed.  
  
Combeferre felt a pity for both Feuilly and himself.  
  
He touched the painter's shoulder and realized that he had been true about touch.  
  
"You know, I feel the same way. About the beggars. All my life I've always been frightened of them."  
  
"Everyone has something like that."  
  
  
  
"Or a few, more likely."  
  
"Things they never stop worrying about."  
  
"Like if Enjolras will get caught."  
  
"Like if my family in Poland is all right."  
  
Combeferre looked quickly at him.  
  
Feuilly noticed.  
  
"My sisters, my aunt, my uncle, my cousins. My friends. They want Poland free as I do. When they wrote they said there was an insurrection. That was last year, too. I don't even know how they are. They want to own themselves. It's not like us with the king. They don't even have a Polish leader."  
  
He paused.  
  
"Have you ever moved?"  
  
Combeferre looked at the ground  
  
"I've lived in Paris all my life."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Feuilly looked up at the old building before him, which was where his room was.  
  
"Come along."  
  
He led Combeferre up old stairs and down a hall that was damp and smelled as though mildew grew there when it was warm.  
  
Feuilly's room was somewhat better.  
  
It had been vigorously cleaned, the walls scrubbed.  
  
The floor was swept.  
  
There were no dead bugs in the window as there were in most.  
  
It was a dark room and a cold room, with a pipe going up one wall, which gave the most heat there was.  
  
The bed was close to the pipe.  
  
Below the window, so the light hit it, was an easel with a half finished painting on it.  
  
Combeferre glanced at it.  
  
"It's not finished yet," Feuilly explained. "It's the way I think of Patria."  
  
"Unfinished?"  
  
"No. I have her face done, you can see. Pained. You know. Tired. Old. Being hurt and saved by her children. I think I sketched her children in…"  
  
Feuilly went over and began examining the painting.  
  
"Ah, yes. There. Enjolras is the one sitting on the rooftop. See? He'll have gold hair. Cadmium yellow mixed with…"  
  
Combeferre listened in amusement.  
  
"These are the children that are hurting her. One has a musket to her head."  
  
"Does it have a bayonet? Is he stabbing her?"  
  
"Stabbing her in the head? No."  
  
"Oh. Isn't that the style people like, though? Dramatic?"  
  
"Treason? No. People don't pay for it. But I'll show you the ones I mentioned before."  
  
Feuilly left his half finished painting and went over to a number of paintings lying against each other, propped on the wall.   
  
"It's rather dark to see them. Would you like me to light the lamp."  
  
"No thank you. Could I hold them to the window, though?"  
  
"Surely."  
  
Combeferre examined each painting carefully.  
  
They were painful.  
  
Paintings of things some people didn't know were there or ignored.  
  
Paintings of hurt.  
  
And he could see what Feuilly meant.  
  
"They're amazing."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"But I doubt people will be hanging them on their walls."  
  
"On the day of the revolution I'll let the poor burn them for warmth."  
  
"But Feuilly! They're too good! You'd be wasting-"  
  
"No one will buy the paintings, but if the poor are warm for a few days, isn't that enough?"  
  
"But people… People after us. They won't be able to understand this place without your paintings."  
  
"There are writers."  
  
"Feuilly."  
  
"They would never survive until the next age."  
  
"They might."  
  
"But they wouldn't."  
  
Combeferre sighed.  
  
He knew Feuilly was right.  
  
He knew it was worthless that anyone would buy the paintings. People who could buy things were the sort who only wanted pleasing things to look at. Their houses must be pleasing, their food, their dress, their everything. Combeferre didn't come from a well-known family but they were wealthy and he knew that well.  
  
"All right, all right. Any other art?"  
  
"I make fans and carve things."  
  
"Fans. Really? And you carve things? What sort of things?"  
  
"Flutes. Dolls. Sometimes I carve dolls."  
  
He was blushing faintly.  
  
"Flutes? You carve flutes?"  
  
Then it occurred to him that the other had signature had been "Feuilly".  
  
"Did you ever sell a flute to a boy called Jehan? Prouvaire?"  
  
"The Prouvaire boy again? No. I sell my flutes to a pawnshop. They're the ones that sell the flutes and fans."  
  
"Oh…"  
  
Combeferre felt a little lost.  
  
He thought…  
  
He was so sure that Feuilly would remember Jehan.  
  
Feuilly with such a strong mind that knew one could take away part of the memory.   
  
Suddenly he felt depressed.  
  
"It's late. I should go."  
  
"You're right, it is. Well, au revoir, be careful, the streets aren't handsome when they're dark."  
  
Combeferre quickly gave him a smile.   
  
"Au revoir."  
  
And he left. He was not attacked on the way home, luckily.  
  
He lay on his bed feeling light headed from not eating and worried for not going to church. He fingered the flute, Jehan's flute. Feuilly and Jehan's flute he thought.  
  
That worked. The two men were completely different. Jehan was rather timid and wouldn't write like Feuilly painted. He wrote of beautiful things. He made his writing pleasing so you'd love it. He wrote beautiful of love and dawns and wonderful things in life.  
  
Feuilly, though, painted pain and death and poverty.  
  
Maybe that was because Feuilly had always been poor, even when he lived in Poland, but Jehan had come from a well-known and rich family.  
  
As far as Combeferre recalled the least depressing thing Feuilly had painted was a horse. It had been labeled 'Koniki Polskie' and showed a horse that was sandy brown. It was fat and short and had a thick black mane and tail. Its back had been dappled with lighter spots.  
  
Feuilly had said he painted horses. Feuilly painted horses very well.  
  
Combeferre brought the flute to his lips and tried to play it. He tried for a while to play it. Nothing different happened, he didn't manage, then finally, feeling light headed, he went to sleep. 


	4. Chapter Four

He slept late, too, later then he ought. And when he woke up he had to be quicker than usual at getting up and going to school. Classes went well, though. Somehow. Somehow they went well. And Combeferre was tired.  
  
And Combeferre wanted to get Jehan back.  
  
So at the end of the day when classes were done and everyone drifted to the café, Combeferre went to Grantaire's table.  
  
He sat in the chair across from Grantaire.  
  
He waited.  
  
Grantaire didn't notice him.  
  
He cleared his throat.  
  
Grantaire blinked and looked up.  
  
"Back, are you?"  
  
He sounded amused.  
  
"Yes. How do I get Jehan back?"  
  
"I told you. You don't."  
  
"Grantaire."  
  
"You wouldn't, though. If you had him. You wouldn't want him."  
  
Combeferre glowered a little.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"You just wouldn't."  
  
"How do I get him back?"  
  
"You *don't*."  
  
"Yes. I want him back."  
  
"Fine, fine, you play the flute."  
  
Combeferre paused.  
  
"I what?"  
  
"You play the flute."  
  
He felt puzzled.  
  
"Just that?"  
  
"Mmhmm. But you won't want him when you have him. When you're ready to get rid of him again, get him to play the flute. It might be a little hard. He's been stuck in it the last year. Since '30. He'd make young wine."  
  
Combeferre felt he ought to be grateful although he wasn't in the least.  
  
"…Thank you…"  
  
Grantaire laughed.  
  
"Oh, you won't *thank* me!"  
  
Combeferre botheredly turned to leave.  
  
"You're just mad…"  
  
Grantaire smirked.  
  
"It's not me that's mad."  
  
Combeferre left quickly.   
  
He didn't want to be there.  
  
He did go to Feuilly, though.  
  
They went back to Feuilly's again and practiced playing flutes.  
  
They used the ones Feuilly had carved.  
  
Combeferre was not the least talented at it and had no ear for music.  
  
Also Feuilly had gotten the impression Combeferre wanted to learn a particular tune and that didn't help.   
  
It was hard enough for Combeferre to get it to actually play (short of hitting himself with it and listening to the resounding thump, which he seemed to do rather often) and putting notes together into a melody was almost impossible.  
  
It was clear Feuilly enjoyed his company, so he stayed longer than he intended to.  
  
Between trying to learn they would pause and talk and it was good conversation and philosophic.  
  
But eventually Combeferre did go home.  
  
He sat on the bed and though about Jehan.  
  
Was it possible he wouldn't want Jehan back when he had him?  
  
He didn't think so.  
  
He took the flute and brought it to his lips.  
  
However he had no luck in playing it. For the first half hour, that is. Eventually he got it right and haltingly played the tune. Then he sat back and wondered if Grantaire had told the truth.  
  
Not that he knew what to expect.  
  
But then he heard a sound outside the door.  
  
The sound of someone talking to himself.  
  
  
  
He went to the door and opened it.  
  
And froze.  
  
A young man stared at him.  
  
His eyes were grey blue.  
  
His brown hair was coming down.  
  
"Je-ehan…"  
  
The man looked slightly insane.  
  
"W-who are you?"  
  
He backed up against the wall across from Combeferre's door.  
  
"What do you want? I shan't write for you. I've done enough of that. Too bourgeois… Well I'm not now!"  
  
Combeferre felt worried.  
  
"Jehan… Come in? It's Combeferre. I'm Combeferre."  
  
"*Y-you*? You had gold hair last time I saw you… You were a statue… Made out of paper..."  
  
"Jehan… shush… please, it's all right…"  
  
He felt helpless.  
  
He felt confused.  
  
Why did Jehan say these things?  
  
Why was he acting like a madman?  
  
He reached out to touch Jehan's shoulder.  
  
  
  
The boy flinched back.  
  
"No- don't touch- too close- it smells smoky and woody-"  
  
Combeferre stared in confusion.  
  
"Jehan…"  
  
All of a sudden Bahorel was there too.  
  
He stood by Jehan.  
  
"*Combeferre*??"  
  
"He- he's- something's wrong-"  
  
"Damn right: the boy's mad!"  
  
"I'm not mad! It's just- too close-"  
  
Combeferre met Bahorel's eyes.  
  
"How did you get him back? I just came to see you."  
  
Combeferre had a feeling that 'come to see you' was only a bare definition, but he wasn't concerned with that.  
  
"I-I played the flute…"  
  
"Well, how the hell do you get rid of him?"  
  
"I don't want to…"  
  
He looked unhappily at Jehan, pressed to the wall with a look of terror.  
  
"Yes, you do."  
  
"No, I don't. 'Get rid of him'? I… love him…"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You're turning into Grantaire. You don't get rid of people just because they're mad. You… you do something else…"  
  
"What?"  
  
Combeferre looked up.  
  
"Something else. A place where he'd be all right…"  
  
Jehan whimpered.  
  
"You'd put him out of his misery."  
  
"No. Never."  
  
He looked at Jehan.  
  
"I understand now. He's been trapped in this damn flute for the last year. Would you trap him there for the rest of eternity?"  
  
"Maybe he wouldn't be trapped."  
  
"Coward."  
  
They looked angrily at each other.  
  
"You're just lying to yourself."  
  
"So are you."  
  
"Perhaps I am. But he'd be living hell."  
  
"Now you really do sound like Grantaire! You're so thoughtless! He just wanted me for Enjolras and you just want me for yourself!"  
  
Bahorel blushed.  
  
"I do not…"  
  
"You did yesterday."  
  
Now Bahorel looked helpless.  
  
"All right, all right. But I don't want you to be miserable. You will be too. You've just wanted him back so badly you convinced yourself that this is all right. You'll go mad, too. You'd be miserable. He'll ruin your memories. You're lying to yourself."  
  
"*You* could be a little less subtle."  
  
"No, I couldn't. You wouldn't see."   
  
"Bahorel, have you ever noticed that when one insults someone whilst trying to convert him one never can convert him, even if the cause is better, just because one has put the other on the defensive?"  
  
"But if you'll acknowledge that, why not this?"  
  
"I love him."  
  
"No, you don't."  
  
"Lying to yourself."  
  
"Combeferre!"  
  
"Bahorel!"  
  
"Please?"  
  
"Good god, I don't want to do this."  
  
"You'd be sparing his memory. You remembered him as a wistful, laughing poet, but now all you remember him as is this insane man. You can't love that memory of him. No one could. Just spare his memory."  
  
Combeferre wouldn't have listened. He would have argued. But he knew Bahorel was right. Ever since he'd seen the man, he'd known it was wrong.  
  
He didn't remember him with wild eyes. He remembered the things the boy had said to be gentle and quiet and special. Things that made sense. Only often they didn't. But when they didn't it was that funny way poets never do make sense. Talking about muses and figments and how they did what they wanted. Now…  
  
He sighed.  
  
"He'd have to play the flute."  
  
They both looked at Jehan but Combeferre looked quickly away.  
  
"Well, you're his lover."  
  
"Be quiet, you idiot. I don't want to. It wouldn't be right."  
  
"Yes, it would."  
  
"*How*?"  
  
"He shouldn't have to suffer. He shouldn't shame his memory."  
  
They stared at each other a moment; then Combeferre nodded.  
  
Combeferre glanced back to Jehan then stepped toward him, holding the flute.  
  
"Will you play for me?"  
  
But Jehan flinched back violently.  
  
"Don't get that near me! I never want to see it again! It hurts!"  
  
Combeferre sighed.  
  
"But you can play it beautifully…"  
  
He quickly wiped at tears.  
  
He felt awful.  
  
And angry under that.  
  
This wasn't how *Grantaire* felt while he killed Jehan.  
  
"Please?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Please, Jehan?"  
  
"Don't call me that! My name is Jean."  
  
Bahorel stepped in.  
  
"Goddammit, boy, it's not your name that matters! Just do it!"  
  
"Bahorel!"  
  
"I won't do it."  
  
Bahorel snatched the flute from Combeferre's hands.  
  
"Do it!"  
  
Just then Combeferre's landlady appeared in the hall. She was a wiry woman whom Combeferre had often seen. He didn't overly dislike her, as most seem to dislike their landladies. He just didn't like her.  
  
She didn't overly like him, either. Though it was really the noise she didn't like.  
  
"Would messieurs like to take this into the street?"  
  
She was eyeing Jehan in particular, trying to figure out where she'd seen him before.  
  
Combeferre felt uncomfortable.  
  
"That… er… won't be necessary. We'll just take it from the hall."  
  
Bahorel was busy nudging Jehan into Combeferre's room, which amazingly easy.  
  
"All right. But be quieter. Monsieur from room one would like quiet to sleep."  
  
Combeferre felt rather surprised.  
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was so late. We shall be much quieter."  
  
And he quickly followed Bahorel and Jehan into his room.  
  
He glanced at them.  
  
Bahorel was sitting demurely on Combeferre's bed while Jehan sat on floor and ran his hands through his long brown hair.  
  
Combeferre heard him murmur 'Bossuet' and it made his chest ache.  
  
He carefully sat beside him.  
  
"I love you, Jehan…"  
  
He heard a rustle as Bahorel quickly picked up a book.  
  
Bahorel would try to read instead of listening.  
  
"I don't know who you are."  
  
"I'm Combeferre."  
  
Jehan raked at his hair.  
  
"I don't know a Combeferre."  
  
Combeferre touched Jehan's hand, gently moving it from his hair.  
  
"We were lovers."  
  
This time he just ignored Bahorel.  
  
"I remember now."  
  
He sounded almost sane.  
  
"It was all your fault. That's why I was trapped. I hate you."  
  
Combeferre shivered.  
  
"Jehan-"  
  
He stroked the boy's hair.  
  
But only once.  
  
"Don't touch me!"  
  
Combeferre quickly drew back.  
  
"Grantaire was right."  
  
"He's always right. He was right about you. You wouldn't know it. He says Apollo's the god, but it's really him. He's just not beautiful. You can go follow Apollo. I hate you all."  
  
Bahorel cleared his throat.  
  
Combeferre burst into tears.  
  
Jehan stood unsteadily and looked at Bahorel.  
  
"Where did you come from?"  
  
"I was here all along."  
  
"No, you weren't."  
  
"Yes, I was. I've been."  
  
"No, you haven't. I've never seen you before."  
  
"You're insane."  
  
"No, I'm not!"  
  
"Bahorel!"  
  
"Quiet, Combeferre. You're supposed to be quiet."  
  
And they were all quiet a while.  
  
It had started raining.  
  
It was cold rain.   
  
Cold October rain.  
  
So they just listened to the sound of that.  
  
Jehan began whistling a tuneless song that grew unbearable.  
  
Finally Bahorel told him so and he stopped.  
  
Combeferre fell asleep against a wall for a short while, miserable and wretched.   
  
He awoke to Jehan having started a chant.  
  
When he realized it was one of the ballads Jehan had written for Courfeyrac he burst into tears again.  
  
Bahorel told him to stop again and he did.  
  
The rain finally stopped.  
  
The gas lamp lit them all with a golden sort of glow.  
  
Jehan now sat crouched over in the window.  
  
The sky was black behind him and the roofs weren't visible against it, but when he looked into the street he could see street lamps with their own golden glow.  
  
Bahorel was propped up on the headboard. His eyes were closed and his long eye lashes cast shadows across his face. By now his hair was coming undone and it appeared black.  
  
Combeferre stood now. There were tracks from when he'd cried, tracks that went under his spectacles. He felt terrible. He'd never felt this wretched or self-pitying or disgusting.  
  
How could anyone be heartless enough to do what he wanted to do?  
  
He loved Jehan.  
  
Jehan had once loved him.  
  
Before whatever Grantaire had told him.  
  
Grantaire…  
  
Why did he have to do this?  
  
Oh, yes, he'd said it was for Enjolras, but was it?  
  
Did he just want it so if he couldn't be happy no one could?  
  
Misery loves a companion.  
  
He glanced at Jehan.  
  
And everyone *needs* a companion.  
  
You ought not to fall in love.  
  
It hurts too awfully.  
  
But to think of never falling in love.  
  
That reminded him of what Feuilly and he had said about Emotions.  
  
About just giving someone your Emotions instead of painting them or writing them.  
  
You could never paint love.  
  
And wasn't love one of the most important things?  
  
It would be a perfectly insane world without love or art.  
  
Combeferre looked at Jehan, then away.  
  
Even if he hadn't loved Jehan as a lover it would have hurt. It would have if he had been a friend. Even if Combeferre had barely known him.  
  
He knew he could take him to a place for insane people.  
  
Really, he ought.  
  
Instead of trapping him forever.  
  
He tensed.  
  
"Bahorel. Bahorel, would Grantaire be awake?"  
  
Bahorel looked sleepily at him and Jehan turned a restless glance at him.  
  
"Probably not."  
  
"Would he be in a café?"  
  
"Probably."  
  
"Would he be asleep or drunk?"  
  
"Good god, I don't know."  
  
Combeferre quickly moved to the door.  
  
"He'll be in Musain, right?"  
  
"Well, yes. Do you think he could move? Good lord, he was drunk. Why?"  
  
But Combeferre was all ready gone and stumbling through puddles to get to Musain. By then it had started raining again and quite unmercifully, too.  
  
He pushed into Musain soaking wet. Not that he cared.  
  
In the back room was Grantaire, draped over a table, sleeping.  
  
Combeferre poked him in the shoulder.  
  
When he didn't wake from that, Combeferre stabbed him in the ribs.  
  
This didn't get him to stir either.  
  
Finally he dragged Grantaire up and pushed him out of the café into the rain.  
  
Grantaire coughed and sputtered a while, crouching, balanced on his feet.  
  
"Christ, man…"  
  
Combeferre gave him a hand up which he accepted, standing unsteadily.  
  
They stood there in the rain a while, not talking until Combeferre spoke.  
  
"Would it kill him?"  
  
"Oh, *that's* what you dragged me out here for? Good god. Yes. Yes it would. What did you think?"  
  
"I thought it might trap him again."  
  
"Well, you were wrong, weren't you? Now leave me alone."  
  
And he began to stumble back into the café.  
  
Combeferre was nervous.  
  
"Ought I?"  
  
Grantaire glanced back shortly.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Combeferre watched him go back in, soaking.  
  
He felt a little bad now.  
  
He sighed and started home.  
  
Ought he, though?  
  
Was Grantaire right?  
  
Was it better to let Jehan live, insane, where he'd be safe, or kill him?  
  
It wasn't fair that he had to choose.  
  
It wasn't fair that anyone had to choose.  
  
So much killing and death weren't a choices.  
  
War…  
  
The soldiers that fought.  
  
The soldiers that they fought.  
  
That wasn't choice.   
  
Not like this, at least.  
  
And sickness wasn't choice.  
  
There was nothing one could do about that.  
  
So why was it that one man who hated to kill was the one who had to make this choice?  
  
He didn't know if Jehan could ever be happy. He didn't think the boy could. He would always be haunted by the walls of the flute.  
  
And the lover who betrayed him.  
  
Or was it that Combeferre didn't want Jehan to hate him?  
  
Was he just trying to defend himself?  
  
Was he being selfish?  
  
He hoped he wasn't dripping too much on the hall carpet. He pushed open the door.  
  
Bahorel was still on the bed. Jehan was sitting against the bed and letting Bahorel stroke his hair. Bahorel looked rather sad. He looked up as Combeferre came in.  
  
"I can't believe it…" he murmured and he had tears in his eyes. "He was… before, he was…"  
  
Combeferre nodded a little and went over. He sat beside Bahorel. He still felt uncomfortable talking in front of Jehan.  
  
"It's right to do it…" he whispered.  
  
Bahorel nodded.  
  
Combeferre reached down to stroke Jehan's hair, but the boy jerked away.  
  
Combeferre's shoulders shook.  
  
Bahorel gently put an arm around him, making Combeferre sure again that emotions can be felt. He pushed his back gently into Bahorel's shoulder feeling lonely and cold.  
  
Bahorel tensed a little.  
  
"You're sopping."  
  
Combeferre laughed a little.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes. Now you put on dry clothes."  
  
Combeferre glanced at Bahorel's face shortly, smiling crookedly.  
  
"I won't. Not in front of you."  
  
Bahorel mumbled something botherdly and looked at the wall away from Combeferre, who smirked a little before he went and changed into dry clothes.  
  
He looked at himself in the mirror.  
  
"I'm not God to choose whether a man lives or dies."  
  
Bahorel looked over at him.  
  
"Actually, that's more the place of a doctor."  
  
Combeferre cast a bothered, amused look at him.  
  
"You're horrible."  
  
"Yes, I know."  
  
Bahorel stood and stretched.  
  
"It's light outside."  
  
Combeferre glanced out the window then turned off the gas lamp.  
  
"It's all slippery down there."  
  
He went over to Bahorel.  
  
"I'm scared to do this."  
  
"We could just put him in an institution."  
  
"Would that be right?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
They stood there a while, Combeferre's head tilted back a little so he could see Bahorel.  
  
Then, suddenly, he left the room and left Bahorel gazing at where he'd been.  
  
He went to Feuilly's place. Feuilly would know what was right. The fact that he didn't hurt him. But even if they did decide to… kill Jehan… how would they ever get him to play the flute? He hated it and he was scared of it.  
  
Combeferre knocked on the door, which he supposed was Feuilly's. He'd been there twice, but he wasn't sure.  
  
It was, though and Feuilly came to the door and opened it.  
  
They stared at each other.  
  
Maybe Combeferre stared more.  
  
He felt bewildered almost.  
  
Feuilly was rumpled and his hair wet from tears.  
  
His eyes were bloodshot from crying.  
  
He forced a smile, but suddenly burst into tears.  
  
Combeferre carefully put his arms around him.  
  
"Sh. What's happened?"  
  
Feuilly had never been like this before.  
  
He gulped back tears a little.  
  
"I-it's nothing… I'm just being… stupid… what did you want your fan-maker for…?"  
  
Combeferre squeezed his shoulders comfortingly.  
  
"It's nothing."  
  
"Is too. You're all pale."  
  
He hooked his hands into Combeferre's waistcoat so that he wouldn't fall down.  
  
"No, no-"  
  
"Yes. Tell me." He sniffed a little. "I seem to be the one who can answer these things. Bring all your bloody problems to me."  
  
And Feuilly burst into tears again.  
  
Combeferre did his best to comfort him.  
  
Yes, you could convey emotion through touch.  
  
But it was so hard.  
  
Finally Feuilly wiped the traces of tears away and stood straight again.  
  
He smiled a little.  
  
"I was just tired."  
  
Combeferre didn't really believe him.  
  
"Now what's the question? I know you have one."  
  
But he gave up worrying.  
  
Not that he should have.  
  
It wasn't right to place his problems before Feuilly's.  
  
But he told himself it was Feuilly who had placed the problems.  
  
Good excuse.  
  
"You'd have to see."  
  
Feuilly managed a smirk.  
  
"About your Jehan, is it?"  
  
Combeferre felt hurt.  
  
"You'd have to see."  
  
"All right. I shall. Let me look respectful…"  
  
He began smoothing his hair.  
  
"All right. I'll come."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
They walked in the morning wet to Combeferre's.  
  
Neither spoke going there.  
  
Combeferre knew there was something wrong but didn't want to ask, and it was clear Feuilly didn't want to tell.  
  
Feuilly looked around Combeferre's room. First he noticed Bahorel and looked wryly amused. Then he saw Jehan and tilted his head to one side. Then he looked surprised. Then he stepped forward.  
  
"Jehan! Poet!"  
  
Jehan looked up with an air of being haunted.  
  
"Not you too. Stay away from me. He made flutes. Stay away. Get away from me!"  
  
Feuilly paused.  
  
Feuilly shivered.  
  
"Aaah."  
  
Combeferre quickly explained.  
  
"Grantaire trapped him in a flute for the last year. When I played it he came back. But he's insane. I can't stand it. G- Grantaire told me he has to play the flute to… g-get rid of him… to kill him…"  
  
"Oh."  
  
Feuilly suddenly turned.  
  
"Don't kill him. No one deserves to die. And no one has the right to chose death for others."  
  
At that moment Bahorel made a startled sound.   
  
It was an unintelligible cry that sounded like 'Prouvaire'.  
  
  
  
Feuilly and Combeferre both whipped about to see Jehan.  
  
The flute was lifted to his lips.  
  
Feuilly looked horrified.  
  
"No, Jehan, don't-"  
  
Jehan began to play.  
  
They all watched and listened to the lilting melody.  
  
When Jehan was done, he smiled, then walked to the door and left.  
  
And was gone.  
  
Bahorel stood there horrified.  
  
Combeferre looked as though he would cry.  
  
Feuilly looked tired.  
  
Jehan was just gone.  
  
There would never be him and his soft laugh again.  
  
No more poet.  
  
No more ballads.  
  
No one moved for a while, then Feuilly went to the door.  
  
"This morning I got a letter. There was an uprising in Poland. My family were revolutionaries. This September the Russian army killed them, all of my family. One of my friends wrote to me."  
  
Then he was gone.  
  
Bahorel and Combeferre stared at each other.  
  
Combeferre burst into tears.  
  
Bahorel took him into his arms and rocked him until he finished crying.  
  
"Good god, Bahorel," he whispered. "Why are we killing people?"  
  
The End. 


End file.
